


Blood of a Murderer, Pool of your own Sins

by MidoriBean



Category: Yume Nikki | Dream Diary
Genre: Kinda, Not Really Character Death, Suicide, dream trauma, except it is, that's a new one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 05:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18423993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidoriBean/pseuds/MidoriBean
Summary: Sometimes what you see doesn't mean it's not there, but rather you choose to ignore the truth behind it.(Realization of what Madotsuki is seeing fall above the blood splatter at the beginning of the Yume Nikki remake)





	Blood of a Murderer, Pool of your own Sins

Her every step feels restricted, almost like an outside force is compelling her to walk forward, the space around her meaning nothing in the moment. The breeze is calm, and the evening sun seems as if it's suppose to be keeping her warm.  
She's not completely sure, though.   
This is a dream, after all. She'll always be aware, yet unable to alter anything.

That's how it's always been, and always will be.

Suddenly, her gait slows, and a sticky, red substance comes into view. The nonexistent laws of time seem to slow as she come closer and closer to it. It draws her in, and soon enough the braids framing her face fall forward as she bends down to inspect it.

Her body reacts faster than her mind as a shadow begins to form over the splatter.

Looking up, the entity falling is far too familiar. 

Jumping from the roof of the building is a sight she'll never forget, memories she hasn't quite experienced flooding back to her as it falls faster and faster, yet her baited breath seems to make everything stop.

Falling from the roof is none other than Madotsuki. Her. Her own body falling, willingly, welcoming the rough and cold embrace of the pavement to lead her to whatever lies beyond life. 

She throws her arms up, trying to block out the sight above her, and institutionally bends her knees, expecting impact. 

Nothing is more sickening then the sound of her own head cracking on the pavement or the implications of what she witnessed.

There's no time to stop and look to see if it's really her. 

No time to see the bloody mass of hair and broken limbs.

Everything around her fades to black, any reality becomes hard to differentiate from the dreams as they become more and more gruesome, more and more familiar.

 

Maybe they were never dreams in the first place.


End file.
